Chapter Text
It has always been Aaron Burr's philosophy that excellence can be achieved quietly. The harder and quieter work you put into something, the more successful you will be at it. That was his way and it could be seen from his highlight books, color coded notes, and coming in fifteen minutes early to every single class. It could be seen in discipline and not in "talent," because talent is unreliable.
This philosophy is what will take him through college and undoubtedly through law school.
It helped him with every exam, interview, name it.
After all those sleepless nights cramming until dawn, it had only made him achieve second place.
Second.
The economics lecture was coming to a close and the class immediately started falling into its usual disorder the very minute Professor Washington assigned the reading for Thursday. The sound of the chairs scraping against the floor filled the air as students rose from their seats.
Conversations erupted in discussions of assignments and weekend plans, and backpacks were thrown over shoulders without any consideration for the people around. Sunlight streamed into the lecture hall through the tall windows onto the table with discarded cups of coffee, worksheets, and pens scattered over the desks left by students who could not wait to go. Aaron barely noticed any of that. With the same precise movements he always used, Aaron gathered his things and put his laptop into the bag, arranging his textbook in a neat pile next to it and ensuring that all the corners aligned properly before putting them inside the backpack.
His pencil case went next, then the notebook, then the file with his lecture notes. Routine never let him down.
"So if market intervention is meant to solve inefficiencies," a familiar voice sounded from the front of the class, "then aren't we admitting the market can't actually regulate itself as well as we pretend it can?"
Aaron's fingers stopped working at the zipper. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to recognize him.
That voice he had been hearing almost daily since five months ago was now back again. It was loud enough to travel effortlessly through all the lecture halls, seminar rooms, and corridors of the entire campus and confident enough not to hesitate even once before asking yet another question, presenting yet another argument, or making an impossibly specific observation.
Alexander Hamilton.
The voice had become such an irritating sound that he wished it was permanently erased from Earth. The coarse jagged voice gave him goosebumps all over, making him feel dry-mouthed. He hated him.
Professor Washington smiled in the indulgent manner he always reserved for only one student. “That’s a much broader question than the one we discussed today.”
“I know,” Hamilton answered, not in the least bit embarrassed. “But it’s more interesting.”
A number of them chuckled on their way to the exit door, some of them even stopping in their tracks without really realizing that they were slowing down once they reached the front of the class, excited about what the next topic of discussion might turn out to be. Aaron observed them from the corner of his eyes, with barely concealed irritation. It would happen after almost every class. Hamilton would keep posing questions after questions and in no time at all, half of the class would still be lingering around as Professor Washington answered them.
Aaron finally raised his head from his chromebook and he really did not want to.
Hamilton was standing there, tie undone under the collar of a suitably respectable button-up shirt, though the shirt appeared to have given up the fight about noon. His sleeves were unevenly rolled up, his curls defied control, and his notebook was slung under one arm, full of arrows, notes, cross-outs, and illegible scrawls so crowded onto the page that Aaron couldn’t figure out how anyone could study from such disheveled notes. He looked like notes made by some freshman student who would apologize to everyone for having made them during an all-nighter.
Hamilton had a ninety-nine percent on the mid-term exam.
Aaron had gotten ninety-eight.
He had relived that one point far more often than he cared to admit.
"Your case study assumes rational behavior on the part of human beings," Hamilton continued, waving his arms as though the conversation had grown far more significant than the lecture. "But it's not true. Human beings panic, speculate, make irrational decisions all the time, so why do we consider their irrational behavior as exceptional rather than the norm?"
Washington regarded him for a moment before nodding. "That's precisely the type of question that economists have tried answering for their entire careers." Hamilton smiled, and the smile was both bright and utterly undeserved, and Aaron knew something unpleasant in his chest.
When they had concluded their conversation, Hamilton went back to packing his things up.
“Hey!”
He found himself without any heartbeat because he realized that Alexander Hamilton had started taking notice of him and looking at him.
He rushed to the door from where he was sitting, praying that he could slip out and pretend he didn't hear him. Unfortunately, things don't usually go his way. There was a hand on his shoulder that stopped him from moving; he turned in shock to see Hamilton in all his glory (literally glowing, how do people even glow like that?). He stood there looking at Aaron for what seemed like eternity.
Not in the same way people generally would look at him, Aaron observed in a daze. Intense. Intent. As though he was trying to look at him. “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?”
He had recognized him? Known about him? His body posture shifted couldn’t be helped. It straightened out and his arms fell back to his side. “That depends, who’s asking?”
Hamilton let go of his shoulder and held it tightly enough that even after he released it, Burr felt it. He smiled like they had already greeted each other formally. “I’m Alexander Hamilton. I’m honored to meet you. I have seen you before in some of my classes. You’re #2 in the class, right?”
The mention of his ranking landed harder than it should have. Burr swallowed once before answering. “Yes. That is me. I’ve seen you as well.”
Hamilton nodded immediately, like that settled something in his mind. “Right. I figured.”
Burr frowned slightly. “You figured?”
“Yeah,” Hamilton said simply. “People talk.”
That tightened something in Burr’s expression. “People talk?”
“Y'know... About you?” Hamilton explained, as though it somehow helped. “You're hard to miss, really. Always prepared, always one step ahead of the rest of us. It’s Impressive.”
Burr could see the irony so clearly that it almost hurt. “I would prefer not to be talked about,” he stated at last, tone even, although something in his chest had become inexplicably very much alive. Hamilton blinked and then laughed softly
“Fair enough. It wasn't meant badly, I just wanted to know more,” Hamilton added. “We're in most of the same classes, the same professors, similar ranking. I hear your name often enough. I just wanted to put a face to it.”
It shouldn't matter. And yet it did.
Because apparently Burr had a name people heard. Apparently Hamilton had heard it. Apparently Hamilton had formed an opinion. Apparently Hamilton was standing here right now acting like that was completely ordinary instead of something that was going to live in Burr’s head for the next several weeks.
“I am not a name which can have a face attached to it,” Burr said softly, but more measured than he really felt.
Hamilton stopped for a split second and nodded once, as if he were actually considering this rather than rejecting it outright. “Yeah,” he said. “Right. Got it.” Hamilton readjusted his bag strap and stepped away by a few inches. “Well. Nice meeting you, Burr. See ya around.”
And then he turned and walked away as if nothing significant had happened at all.
As if he had not just spoken to Aaron Burr like he mattered.
As if he had not just looked at him like that.
And Aaron Burr remained standing in the hallway, perfectly composed, perfectly still, while his brain very calmly refused to stop replaying every single second of it.